


What started out as friendship has grown stronger

by wonthetrade



Series: my head's not bowed [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carey and PK are friends, best friends. But it also turns out they've been dating all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What started out as friendship has grown stronger

**Author's Note:**

> If you got here by searching yourself of someone you know, turn back now. It's for your own health and safety.

_ December 2015 _

It’s the worst idea. It really is. Sure, PK’s given her carte blanche to invade his place whenever she wants, but this is pushing a boundary she’s sure. It’s just…she misses him. It’s a discernable absence. She hates it and this is the only thing she can think of that’ll help. 

It’s not like she’s going to do anything crazy. She just…she’s going to curl up on his couch and watch his crazy cable package. She’s going to curl up on his bed and have a nap. She’s going to cook in his kitchen, where she’s rearranged everything to her specifications because he is not a logical cook, nothing had been in the right place and she cooks in his kitchen enough that it matters. Maybe she’ll steal a sweatshirt on her way out. 

The minute she steps inside the tension just leaks out of her. Everything smells like him, his damn cologne that he always piles on no matter how much shit she gives him for it. Yet it soothes her, her entire body settling back into her skin, like when she stretches out her morning aches. 

She heads into the kitchen first. He has a neighbour that waters his plants, but since Carey’s here, she figures she can at least be helpful. The watering can is under the sink and she fills it absently, her shoulders rolling back, her stomach unknotting. She’s all but humming as she wanders back to the living room, the tiny array of plants he keeps by the window. The coffee table catches her eye halfway there, the red book on top of it. 

His sketchbook. 

She sets the watering can on the table as she lowers herself to the couch, reaches out to pull the book into her lap. Her mouth is already quirking up as she thumbs at the loose pages. She’s seen him tuck so many of them in here, pages he rips out of his other sketchbooks and folds away like they’re precious. She’s asked, of course, a hundred times, but he just gives her this little enigmatic smile. 

But now she has a front row seat. 

She lifts the book carefully, like it’ll break if she drops it, like she’ll be ruining something if one of those loose pages so much as shifts from where he’s hidden it away. She strokes her hand over the cover with a little smile on her face. This piece of PK is hers and she knows that. It’s a piece of himself he so rarely shares. She opens the cover slowly expecting maybe one of his landscapes. 

That is not at all what this is. 

Her breath catches as she takes in the first picture. She’s curled up against the window of an airplane - his spot, normally. She’s made herself as small as she can, her coat draped on top of her, hair spilling down over the faux fur of the hood. He’s captured her in exquisite detail, like he’d taken a picture and merely transposed it to paper. But it’s old. It must be. She never sleeps on planes like this anymore. He doesn’t let her. 

The next one doesn’t make her feel any better. She’s in the locker room in the Bell Centre, pads strapped to her legs, just her Under Armor on top. Her hands are up and it takes her a minute to realize he’s caught her halfway through braiding her hair. The third one’s her too, curled up on his couch, waving at the television, frustration in her face. 

She can’t breathe. 

Carey flips quickly through a few more pages, more pages of her. In his kitchen, napping in her bed, her face, her hands, the way she holds her stick, her face behind her goalie mask. He’s caught her with her four awards and the grin on her face, and the shy little smile she’ll give him when he praises her playing in the effusive way he does. 

It’s an entire sketchbook of her. 

They’re not all recent, some of them from months ago, some of them from years. PK Subban’s been drawing her for fucking years. Her hands are shaking as she pulls out her phone and dials Brenda’s number. 

“Did you know PK could draw?”

“What? No!” 

Well, Brenda knows now, so Carey bypasses that little point and blurts out, “He has a sketchbook of me.”

“Naked?!”

“No. What?” She pulls the phone away from her ear to stare at it for a moment. “No.  Where does your brain go?”

There’s silence for a moment. “It’s, uh, not really that weird?”

“What’s not weird? That he sketches me?”

“Well, now that you mention it, no. Are you serious right now, Carey? Because it sounds like you’re surprised he has feelings for you and we’ve all thought you’ve been dating and keeping it on the DL.”

Carey completely blanks out.  _ Feelings. Dating.  _ “What the hell is a DL?”

“Oh my god, Carey. Down-low. So that would be a no on the secret dating then?” Brenda continues, completely oblivious to her silent meltdown. “If that’s not dating, then what the hell have you two been doing?”

“Being friends.”

Brenda snorts. “Carey. What you guys are doing is not just friendship. It’s not. Like, it’s so far beyond friendship. How did you not know this?”

“Of course it’s friendship what are you-”

“Carey. Pricey. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you have to think back to all the stuff you guys do. Really think about it. Then we can talk about this again, like reasonable human beings.” She promptly ruins that illusion by giggling. “Honestly, Carey. You could have been banging him all this time. I mean seriously, dat ass.”

“ _ Brenda _ !”

“What? I love him like a brother, but I’m not dead!”

She would put her head in her hands, but settles for slapping her forehead. “Okay. We’re not having this conversation anymore. I’m going to hang up, and I’m going to think.”

“You do that,” Brenda says, and hangs up before Carey can. She stares at her phone in a stupor, then turns back to the sketchbook. This time, she looks through each sketch slowly, rather than skipping through them.

There’s something soft and so caring in each and every stroke. This is how he sees her, she realizes, stopping on a photo of her sipping coffee on his couch, wearing a sweater that’s so big it’s nearly dropping off one shoulder. She doesn’t know how he’s managed it with just charcoal, but somehow she’s glowing. Radiant.

It takes her breath away.

Oh God. Holy crap. 

_ Holy fuck. _

Brenda can’t be that wrong. She can’t. Not with the care and intimacy she can see in the grey lines, the shadows. 

He’s in love with her and she’s missed it.

* * *

 

_ May 2010 _

PK Subban is young, brash, the rookie to end all rookies, brought in at the last minute and slotted into a team that’s been playing well all season. Really, he’s not the type of person Carey would ever have really noticed, given he plays more minutes against the Flyers in their final playoff series than she spends warming up. 

But, as she learns quickly after that, PK just grabs attention. Sure, he’s attractive, charming and hard to miss, but he’s also a defenseman and Carey’s always seen hockey first.

PK plays  _ fantastic  _ hockey. The first thing people notice is his personality, never realizing that he plays to it on the ice just to get people off their game.  _ Then  _ he goes to work, skating so beautifully it’s hard to believe he plays d sometimes. He’s nothing like the guys who just kind of chop their way up the ice. Sure, he still has some rough edges, but he has the makings of a great defenseman.

But that’s about as much as she knows about him. At first.

She meets PK officially at the cookout Patches throws after the Flyers kick them out of the playoffs. It’s a Victoria Day thing he’d totally roped her into helping with by shamelessly using his wife. 

“May two-four,” he says when he calls. Carey’s mid-run and more than a little breathless, but it’s Patches, so. “Katia wants to have a cookout.”

She doesn’t even slow her pace, just rolls her eyes. She knows where he’s going with this. “What does she want me to bring?”

“Those pocket taco things?” he asks and he sounds so damn hopeful she finds herself wondering if he’s even asked Katia. “Tortilla wraps.”

Carey laughs, shakes her head a little. “Yeah, I can bring a tray of those.”

“And potato skins?”

“God, you’re lucky it’s the off season.” 

Really, Carey doesn’t mind cooking. She likes it. It helps settle her, the idea that there’s something tangible that comes out of it at the end of the day, the precision of measurement. It had started as a method to control what she ate, an easy way to monitor her diet, and grown into something a bit more creative. 

So she makes the wraps, makes the potato skins, and lugs them to Patches’ place. 

Katia greets her with a commiserating smile. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I did,” Carey answers, happy to relinquish one of the two trays. “Out back?”

The word must have gone out that she was cooking because there’s a roar from the guys when she follows Katia into the backyard. She’s been part of these Habs family events for years and while there are always one or two guys that seem to routinely forget she can actually cook and function like an adult, the excitement when she does bring something is usually consistent.

Truth be told, it’s a good thing they forget. It’s not like she needs a stampede of hungry hockey players storming her place and begging for food all the time.

Someone hands her a beer and she plunges in.

Carey’s got a plate in one hand, telling Patches a story about Motty’s shenanigans when PK sidles up right beside her. “Dude. Have you tried these potato skins? Katia’s a genius.”

Carey chokes on a chuckle as Patches offers him a rueful look. “They’re Carey’s,” he says blandly. “You have so much to learn, rookie.”

PK looks torn between taking offense and being utterly floored. He settles on turning to Carey. “You cook?”

“When I can.”

It’s busy during the season. She’s often stacking up on off-days, things she can yank out of the fridge or freezer at a moment’s notice. 

“You never cook for me.” He’s actually pouting at her. She barely even knows him and hasn’t had more than a handful of conversations with him. It is, however, moderately adorable. Not that she’s going to admit it.

“You’ve been in the NHL for literally two weeks, and it’s not like I cook this kind of stuff during the regular season.” 

PK throws his arm around her shoulder, easy as you please. She adjusts for the way her plate wavers dangerously. “Do you need a shopping buddy? I am the  _ best  _ shopping buddy. Or I’ll do your dishes, whatever you want, as long as you feed me.”

Her eyebrows rise all the way to her hairline. This guy’s confidence is unbelievable, and she can’t quite figure out why it’s not irritating.

Then it hits her. It’s the fine line between confidence and cockiness, and while PK has confidence in spades, he’s not cocky.

Carey likes it. Of course, she’s not going to tell  _ him  _ that. She resumes eating. “Maybe. I don’t cook for just anyone.”

“Pricey, I am not just  _ anyone _ .”

Yeah, she’s beginning to see that.

 

_ March 2015 _

She feels PK crowd against her back as they deplane and braces herself absently. 

“I don’t have food in my fridge,” he sighs into her hair. Carey rolls her eyes. 

“You never have food in your fridge.” 

He pokes her side and she hisses back at him. “That’s mean, Carey. Why are you so mean to me?”

“I’m the last person who’s mean to you. Chucky is mean. Larry is mean. I am wonderful.”

PK’s sigh sounds happy and feels warm against the back of her neck. “So wonderful,” he agrees, nuzzling. 

“Jesus, PK, stop. You’re heavy.”

He groans but dislodges himself, takes her arm to tuck it through his. “Cook for me?” 

Carey all but chokes on the laugh that wants to burst out incredulous and maybe a little frustrated at his assumption. “Are you serious? You think I’m any less exhausted than you are?” 

“You don’t like cooking for one,” he says this like it’s an utter fact and okay, maybe it is. Carey’s admitted a few times that it is a lot easier to cook for more than just herself. It’s much more enjoyable too. She doesn’t broadcast that she likes cooking, but she can’t lie and say it isn’t nice when someone other than herself, Duke and Motty are appreciative of what she can do in the kitchen.

She thinks back to what’s packed in the freezer. “Chicken pot pies?” she inquires in a sort of amused resignation because seriously, one of the worst things he’s ever learned about her is that she genuinely enjoys cooking and she enjoys sharing what she’s cooked almost more than cooking itself. 

“You’re the best.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

* * *

 

_ January 2012 _

Being famously unfussy about her equipment doesn’t mean that Carey doesn’t have her habits or routines. First and foremost, she’s a goalie and she’s very aware that plenty of goalies take a lot of flak for pre-game rituals. She’s not far from that group. Her skirt suit goes into her locker when she gets to the Bell Centre, her Under Armour slides over her head. She catches a snack at the island in the locker room, chirps a couple of guys on their own habits simply because she  _ can _ . 

She goofs off, relaxes, then goes back to her locker to take her earrings out. This is the one part of her pre-game routine at the Bell Centre she takes very seriously. She places them carefully on the shelf, right in the corner where they won’t roll away or get shoved to the back where she can’t find them again. 

“You always do that.”

Carey turns, arches an eyebrow PK’s way. It’s not like the rest of the team doesn’t have their own little things, or that he’s unfamiliar with habits, routines, superstitions, or rituals. “You don’t get to chirp me for my earrings,” she tells him. “I’ve seen just how much moisturizer you go through.”

His chin tips up but his eyes are sparkling. “Pricey. Skin care is very important. Skin like this doesn’t grow on trees.” 

She wants to laugh but settles on rolling her eyes instead. “Even my skincare routine isn’t that rigorous.”

“Wait. You mean you were born with gorgeous skin?”

She doesn’t blush. It’s PK, this is exactly the type of thing he would care about and it’s not the first offhand compliment he’s ever thrown her way. She shrugs instead. “It’s not like I don’t take care of it?”

He bounds over to her and she’s never been so damn grateful for how naturally tactile he is because it’s nothing new when his hands immediately take hers, rubbing circles on the back. Still, she feels compelled to ask, “What are you doing?”

“Do you know how much hand cream I need to keep my skin even half this soft?” He comments, completely unfazed. “I mean our profession is brutal on the skin. Cold ice rinks, warm locker rooms…”

Patches walks by, tosses them an odd look. “Wooing Pricey, PK?”

“Pricey’s hands are so soft! See, feel!” He drags Carey over and at this point she's just resigned to it all. Luckily, PK lets her go after she shakes Patches’ hand, trailing after her as she returns to her stall. “Seriously though, are the earrings like, an heirloom or something?”

She shrugs. “My mom gave them to me the day before I was drafted.” There isn’t much more significance than that, but apparently it’s enough because PK’s expression clears.

“They’re pretty,” he tells her instead before he heads off to continue his own pre-game routine. 

Later on, after the last buzzer has gone and the team’s changed back into their street clothes, she spies him watching as she slips the earrings back into her ears. She would explain it to him if she could, the feeling she gets when she has them, but she has a feeling he understands.

 

_ March 2014 _

The day she can’t find her lucky pearl earrings  _ anywhere _ leaves her feeling more than a little out of sorts. 

_ Don’t have ‘em _ , Gally’s text says, and Carey seriously considers whipping the device at the wall. Logically, she knows that they’re just a pair of earrings. She doesn’t even wear the damn things on the ice. She can’t. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t borderline crying. 

_ Her earrings _ . 

She spins on her heel when she hears a key in the lock, hears her door open. PK steps in, ready to go in his suit, a suit he fills out very well if she’s objective about it. Or subjective really. He just looks good. 

_ Not the point, Carey! _

“Now’s not a good time.”

But PK drops his suit carrier and strips off his coat, completely nonchalant at the fact she’s standing there half dressed, her blouse on and buttoned but still in her panties, with the rest of her suit laid out on the end of her bed. He’s seen her in less. “I figured as much. Gally sounded the alarm.”

She doesn’t have time to question that, she just got off with Gally for goodness sakes, because PK, wonderful, beautiful, glorious PK, reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pearl earrings. 

Oh she could kiss him. 

“PK!”

She reaches for one, slides it into her ear and feels the tension leak out of her shoulders. The other one makes it disappear. All is right in the world again. She sighs, pops up on her tiptoes and presses an easy kiss to his cheek. 

“You left them at mine,” he says quietly, his smile soft as he flicks one gently. His other hand is at her back, keeping her close and Carey kisses his cheek again, lingering a little bit because he smells so good and the feel of him next to her is comforting, familiar. And she’s just so damn relieved. 

It’s not the first thing she’s left at PK’s either. He jokes half of her closet lives there, but that’s a downright lie. She has a couple of pairs of sweats, some work out gear and a change of underwear, but that’s about it. She spends enough time there it had started to damn well make sense. Not that he can throw stones. He actually has suits in her closet and it’s not near as big as his is. 

(He says her bed is more comfortable when he climbs in for game day naps, disgruntled because his place is too hot, or too cold, or the bed doesn’t feel right, smell right…the list is long. PK can be just as picky as she is and he’s absolutely dead set on finding the perfect place.)

“You’re a superhero,” she informs him, stepping back and shimmying into her skirt. It’s more than natural to turn around and let him zip it up at the back.

“Yeah?” He sounds delighted at the prospect. “Which one? Oooh, wait, how about Captain Canada?” He retrieves her blazer from its hangar and helps her into it, straightening her lapels because as with hockey, when it comes to sartorial choices he’s all about the details.

“Don’t be silly, that’s Sid,” Carey informs him. She is, after all, the reason why they want to integrate the teams for the World Cup. “You’re more like...Iron Man.”

She can see the wheels turning in his head as she goes digging for her shoes. “Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist? I guess there are worse things to be. But wait, Pricey, are you saying I’m a playboy?”

“I don’t know, are you?” she teases back. Honestly, she knows that PK rarely dates and when he does, he is the epitome of discreet. Most of the time, the team doesn’t even find out until after the fact. It drives Prusty  _ insane. _

“How can I be, when my very own Pepper Potts is right here?”

What a dork. She rolls her eyes, ignores the warm roll of heat in her stomach, and checks her watch. “We’d better get down to the bus.” She raises an eyebrow. “Will that be all, Mr. Subban?”

PK offers her his elbow. “That will be all, Ms. Price.”

* * *

 

_ Winter 2011 _

Carey’s really not surprised when they keep PK up for the 2011-2012 season. He plays  _ fantastic  _ hockey. She’s faced enough of his shots in practice to appreciate not being on the receiving end of them. That thing is a goddamn  _ cannon. _

He’s also nearly as protective of her crease as she is. She remembers one particular game where a shoving match devolved into a pile of guys in front of the net, though she’d remained completely untouched. PK ended up at the bottom of the pile and raised his glove as she skated over, clearly asking for a high-five. “Really, PK?” she asked, amused, tapping him with her blocker.

He just beamed up at her. “Gotta protect my goalie.”

That’s just pure PK, so fiercely protective of the things he perceives to be his. Carey doesn’t mind being added to it because objectively, she  _ is  _ his goalie. Still, it’s one thing to be his goalie and another to be one of his people. PK, for all his personality, lets very few people into that elite inner circle.

She walks through that first door to the inner circle without really realizing it. The invitation is subtle and happens, of all places, on the plane.

No one sits beside Carey on planes. She’s not a terrible seatmate and she’s not upset about it. It’s just something that happened that she’s never questioned. So Carey doesn’t have a seatmate, normally, and she’s okay with that. 

Then, one evening after a long, crazy game that prefaces a west coast road trip, Carey barely makes it to her seat before curling up under her coat and passing out. 

When she wakes they’re touching down in Vancouver, her neck is killing her, and none other than PK has settled in next to her. He looks her over, noting how small she’s made herself and the way she winces as she turns her head. 

“Come here.”

He’s already tugging on her arm so Carey goes, surprised when that same hand slides under her hair to curl around her neck. The touch itself isn’t really extraordinary. He is tactile, easy with his body and his affection, but there’s an intimacy to the easy way his fingers brush against her nape that takes her by surprise.

“Here?”

Then he’s digging his thumb right into the ache and Carey has to bite down hard on the moan that wants to come out. She sighs out a shaky breath instead and leans into his hand. He grunts, a bit in annoyance, a bit in acknowledgement. 

“Next time, we’re switching spots,” he says as they taxi to the terminal, his hand still pushing and prodding wonderfully at the crick in her neck. “I hate sitting in the aisle and I make a much better pillow.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not saying you won’t,” he answers, but digs his finger in again and forces a moan from her throat. “Just trying to save my goalie some discomfort. Plus,” he goes on before she can tell him that it always works itself out before games, “Mal used to do the same thing in the car. I’m good at it.”

She has to give him that much. Then something he says sticks with her. “Mal. Mallory Subban, goaltender with the Bulls?”

His entire face lights up and she has to admit, it’s kind of precious. “Yeah, that’s my little sister. Kind of the black sheep because she picked goalie, but it’s still defense.”

“Goalies are the most important,” Carey says loftily, but smiles. “She’s doing really well.”

“She is.” He is just beaming and Carey finds herself blushing. It’s so obvious, how much he adores his sister and it’s a beautiful thing to see. “Hey, do you mind talking to her sometime? She’s asked about you a few times, she really looks up to you.”

“Me?” She’s been playing backup to Halak, it’s hardly been a breakthrough season by any means.

PK’s smile doesn’t dim the slightest bit. “Hell yes, Pricey. You’re the first female goalie since Manon. You’re inspiring a hell of a lot of people out there.”

She hasn’t really thought about it that way. She’s been too busy just trying to get there and not keep getting sent down. Paving the way and being the inspiration is Sid’s job, and Danielle, Marcia, all the ones who’ve been playing for a while. Carey’s not even there yet, she hasn’t even proved herself.

But there  _ is  _ someone looking up to her, and that really means something. She hands over her phone. “Put in her number, I’ll give her a call.”

So he does, and his smile is that much bigger when he hands the phone back to her. “Thanks, Pricey.”

Carey lets her smile turn a little smug, a little self-confident. “You say that now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “You’re not going to thank me when you can’t score on her.”

It makes PK laugh, this loud obnoxious thing and she smiles reflexively. It’s not her fault. He’s just… bright. He makes it easy to be happy, to smile back. But that’s PK. Since day one it’s been easy; they’ve clicked. She likes it, a lot. It’s been a long time since she’s felt quite this easy with a teammate and she has to admit, there’s a real comfort in it. 

So when they climb onto the plane after the game and PK pats the aisle seat next to him, she goes and settles in against his shoulder. She’s out before he’s loaded up the game tape on his laptop and doesn’t wake until they land, no crick in her neck and a smile on her face. 

She and PK are going to get along famously. 

 

_ March 2011 _

There’s a quiet scratching in her ears as she slowly wakes. It’s a sound she can just barely hear above the gentle whirr of the plane engines and Carey blinks her eyes open curiously. PK’s shoulder is tensing under her cheek, enough to rouse her a little more. It takes her a minute to adjust, but when her eyes clear and she glances at what he’s doing, her breath catches. 

“Christ, PK.”

He stiffens next to her, a line of tension she is not even close to used to when it’s him and her. She only absently notices, too busy reaching out for the page he has spread across his tray table. Her fingers pause just above the smudge of charcoal blending clouds into sky. 

PK Subban can draw. Not just sketch, not just messy doodles, but  _ draw _ . 

She’s not sure what landscape he’s drawn, isn’t even sure he would know if she asked, but there’s a moon in the clouds and the trees are bare and Carey is utterly stunned. 

“When on earth did you start drawing?” 

He relaxes a little against her arm and it takes her a moment and a glance at his face to realize he thought she’d judge him. She scowls and punches his arm because that’s the dumbest thought to ever go through his head. Everyone needs a hobby that isn’t hockey. 

“A while ago,” he offers and the tone of his voice makes Carey wonder if he’s blushing. 

Her fingers drop down to the page, the rough texture beneath the pads of her fingers. His wrap around her wrist, just holding it there until she looks up, awed and surprised. He’s nervous. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

“Pricey, no one else knows.”

“Why?” she asks, genuinely confused. “You have nothing to be ashamed about. You have a gift, and it’s a beautiful thing.”

He looks so delightfully pleased by that. “Look, it’s not that I’m ashamed, Pricey. It’s just been a while and it’s always been kind of a private thing.”

Now that she understands. With the season being as long as it is, and living in such close proximity to the team, the players tend to cherish every bit of privacy they can get. “I get it,” she says softly. “And I don’t have to bring it up again if-”

He’s already shaking his head. “Nah, Pricey. You’re the exception.”

It’s one of the nicest things she’s ever heard. Sometimes Carey tends to be a little aloof with the other players - it’s one of the hazards of being a goalie, even more so because she’s a woman. She’s been up and down between Montreal and Hamilton that it’s been a little hard to make those bonds and she’s just really grateful that she has PK. “As it should be,” she informs him. “Show me some?”

 

_ April 2011 _

She’s completely disoriented when she wakes up. The sheets are too soft to be hers and the furniture is all wrong, sleek lines and metal rather than her comfortably country-style wooden end tables and dresser. She sits up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and vaguely recalls cooking in PK’s woefully understocked kitchen before falling asleep. She’s pretty sure she fell asleep on the couch though, and not in PK’s bed.

A quick glance at the clock tells her she has a little time before she needs to get home and get ready for the game. But god, she needs coffee. She’s really, really hoping he made coffee.

She doesn’t hear the low murmur of voices until she’s in the kitchen doorway, blinking stupidly. It’s PK’s mother and father, and it’s too late to back out because they’ve noticed her. She’s fully aware that her hair probably resembles a rat’s nest and her clothes are rumpled and oh god  _ she just got out of their son’s bed.  _ Not in that way, but still. At least she’s not wearing  _ his _ clothes.

“Pricey!” PK hops out of his chair and all but skips over to her, snagging her hand and dragging her over. “Look, my parents came to surprise me!”

“Uh,” she says. Very articulate, Carey. Inwardly, she despairs because she wanted to make a good impression. She knows how important PK’s family is to him, and here she is, acting like she’s two brain cells short of a pair.

“Carey!” Maria completely bypasses Carey’s outstretched hand and envelops her in an enormous hug. She smells like coffee and lilacs and it’s such a mom smell that she finds herself instantly relaxing and hugging her back. “PK talks about you all the time, it’s so good to finally meet you!”

“We kind of thought you were a figment of his imagination!” Big Karl jokes, coming around the table to give her a hug as well.

PK makes a face. “Come on guys, I haven’t had imaginary friends in years!” He hands Carey a mug, already perfectly doctored, and pulls out a chair for her.

They don’t allow her to be awkward, and by the time she finally makes it out to her car she’s been invited back for dinner the next day. “To pay you back for all the times you’ve fed PK,” Maria explains, dimpling. “Heaven knows I’ve tried to teach him, but-”

“He’s hopeless,” Big Karl finishes for her, letting out a deep belly laugh.

PK’s so happy he clearly doesn’t care that he’s being chirped. He just sits back, grinning at them all like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and Carey feels her chest inflate, her heart beat a little harder. 

It takes Carey a few minutes while she’s sitting in the driver’s seat to puzzle through what just happened, how PK’s parents didn’t so much as blink when Carey had come stumbling out of the bedroom and feels a smile creep over her face. 

_ You’re family’s pretty cool _ , she ends up texting him just as she’s climbing into the shower. He corners her at the rink, his smile rueful but fond. 

“You say my family’s cool now,” he says, “but be aware, you’ve been adopted. There’s no going back.”

She shrugs at him a weight of certainty settling in her stomach, the warmth of being accepted by PK’s family so easily. “Not sure I want to.”

She can’t read the look that comes over his face, but it’s gone a moment later when someone bellows at him to change the music away from the “girly pop” and he wheels around, his arms flailing madly in protest.

* * *

 

_ March 2012 _

She doesn’t know why she goes to him. She’s antsy and she feels like crap and like her entire career with the Habs is swirling down the drain…and it’s not. Logically she knows it’s not. She is  _ good _ and one terrible game isn’t going to stop that, even against a team as good as Buffalo, when they’re really not playing well.

She tries all her usual tricks. She gets out her emergency kit, takes a long bath, puts her hair into the most complicated braid she knows. Nothing seems to work.

Regardless, she has no idea why her next instinct is to show up at PK’s room. He looks just as surprised to see her, but steps back. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she answers, twisting her hands in the ratty Habs sweatshirt she never wears where the guys can see her. It’s not vanity it’s just…it’s the sweatshirt she wears when everything sucks, and she doesn’t like the team knowing she’s out of sorts. “Can I-”

“Of course.”

She steps in, still feels so awkward because she doesn’t do this. She has her own coping mechanisms that don’t involve anyone else but she just couldn’t be alone. And she knows PK watches game tape after, tries to analyze what went right and what went wrong. She doesn’t think she can watch it right now, but she does know she needs someone and something to keep her mind off everything.

“Hey,” he says again, and this time she feels the way he presses his palm low on her back. Her chest hitches as she tries to breathe through the disappointment. 

“Carey.”

She turns, buries her face in his chest. He sighs and wraps her up and this, she realizes. This is why she’d come here to him, where he wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t judge her for falling apart. He’s seen it before, been on the front lines to some of her more spectacular explosions, but he may be the first person to see her break like this.

“Okay. Okay.”

He squeezes her tight, rocks them back and forth a little bit. Almost like they’re dancing. It’s soothing, and she can feel some of the tension begin to drain from her, bit by bit. “Can we...I don’t know, watch a movie or something?” she mumbles into his shirt, a worn Bulldogs one that’s almost a little too tight, but silky soft from multiple washes.

“Sure thing. Any preferences?”

“Something cute and sappy?” It’s not her usual style, but she could use something lighthearted right now.

She can feel the slight puff of a laugh against her hair. “Of course we can.” He steers them towards the bed in some sort of shuffle-dance. When he sits down on the bed, back against the headboard, she wastes no time curling up against him. He flicks through the channels until they find something suitably sweet on the Hallmark Channel.

“They’ve only known each other for five days,” she grumbles sleepily towards the end. At the point, PK’s slid all the way down the bed and she with him, until they’re lying tangled together, her head on his chest. It’s as easy as the way he tugs her closer on the plane and Carey’s pretty sure if she doesn’t move soon she’s just going to pass out here. 

His chest vibrates beneath her head and this time, she knows he’s laughing at her. “Aw Pricey, that’s true love for you. It hits you right away, just like that. BAM.”

“Do you really believe that?” She’s more than a little curious because for all of PK’s bluster about the ladies loving him, he’s actually pretty closemouthed about his actual love life.

“Well, maybe not for everyone.” He shrugs. “There are different kinds of love. My parents told me that they knew right away.”

“Mine took a while.” Her parents have always had a very deep, quiet kind of love. They’re companions in every sense of the word. It’s pretty much what she’s always seen for herself. The only thing she fell in love with at first sight was hockey.

“See? Different.”

She just hums. “Can I stay here?” She knows she should go back to her room but her limbs feel too heavy and it just feels so nice to be here, next to him.

“Of course you can.”

 

_ May 2014 _

It’s not the worst loss they’ve ever suffered, not by far, but this one… this one feels different. This one’s a playoff loss. Worse, they’ve lost the Eastern Conference final. 

They’ve been here before - the whole team’s been here before - getting in only to fall apart. Carey feels responsible and even said so in the finality of that last media scrum. Logically, she knows better. They’re a team and she can’t carry them the whole way to the Cup. It doesn’t make her feel better though and she knows the dejection is written all over her face. Carey’s never been exactly explosive, but she’s not the type to keep it all in either. 

No one talks as they board the plane, not even PK. He doesn’t pull out his laptop either and she doesn’t blame him. She’s not sure any of them are quite ready to face just how close they’d come. Sometimes she thinks one goal losses are the hardest. Instead, he settles into his seat and looks up at her where she’s still standing maybe a little awkwardly in the aisle. His smile is a little brittle around the edges, but it’s there and her fingers, which she didn’t realize were curled so tightly around her luggage, relax their grip. 

“Coming, Pricey?” he asks, just above the hum of the engine. He’s already shifting in his seat, lifting the armrest they never leave down between them anymore. She sighs and finally, finally reaches up to tuck her luggage away, tosses what is generously called a purse under the seat in front of her. The minute her seatbelt is on he’s reaching out for her, arm wrapping around his shoulder and she goes. 

Her head settles just below his shoulder, in the divot created by his muscles shifting and the arm around her shoulders. He’s shucked his jacket long ago, stuffed it up with his luggage, so there’s only a thin layer of cotton between her and the heat of his skin. She sighs again as his arm curls around her, feels a little bit more of the dejected tension leak out of her frame. It’s a sound he echoes and she feels his chin on her hair. 

“Next year.”

She reaches over until her arm is wrapped around his stomach, her hand clenching in his shirt. She knows he’s not doing much better, but he’s trying. He’s trying because he knows she blames herself - they all blame themselves, at least a little. He knows she’s harder on herself than she is on anyone else and even if it had been a damn good goal, she should have kept it out. She should have been able to do her job and made sure they didn’t lose. It’s nothing less than she’d been doing it all season. 

“Carey.” Like he can feel where her thoughts are going. 

“It was our year,” she murmurs anyway, maybe a little too forlorn and melancholy. 

“Maybe,” he concedes, though she knows he thinks the same. He always thinks it’s their year, drags the whole team into the mentality behind him, him and Patches. “Not our last year though.”

It’s true, the chance is always there. There was something about this year though, that made it seem like it was right there, right at their fingertips-

But she refuses to dwell on that. Not now. She snuggles in deeper, closes her eyes, and allows the rhythm of PK’s breathing to drag her down into sleep, only waking when the plane touches down in Montreal.

“Hey,” PK says softly, still looking just as quietly upset as she feels, all of it roiling uncomfortably in her stomach despite her nap. “Come back to mine?” 

She doesn’t have anything clean in her bag, but going home feels… wrong. Uncomfortable. And she knows enough about herself that she’s aware going home alone is a terrible idea. “I need sweats,” she says. “And you’d better have food in your fridge.”

He doesn’t, of course. He has enough for some scrambled eggs, some fruit, some toast. Carey lets herself get lost in the pattern of it, the coolness of the tiles against her bare feet. She’s lost her jacket, but she’s still in her skirt, her blouse. He’s rubbing at his head when he emerges from his bedroom, sees her standing there. His smile is wan, but fond. 

“We could have ordered in.”

She hums, but that’s as much acknowledgement as she gives that particular idea. His hand ghosts down her arm, an easy touch, familiar. 

“You could have showered. If we had.”

“It can wait.” The skirt doesn’t bother her that much, nor does the blouse. Kind of a uniform in its own right, holding her together. She snorts at herself, shakes her head when he arches an eyebrow at her. He’s right against her side, shoulder to shoulder, and she settles just a little more, allowing him to take some of her weight. PK’s not a Stanley Cup, but as his warmth leeches into her skin through her blouse, she thinks this is pretty good too. 

She tilts her head to the side, lets it rest on his shoulder. “You’re the best, you know that?”

His smile is warm and soft as he looks down at her, as his hand tangles in her hair, a little wavy from climbing on the plane with it wet and sleeping on his shoulder. He uses it to angle her head just enough to kiss her forehead. “Of course I am,” he says right against the skin. “You should shower.”

She hums, but the eggs are almost done and she hates cold eggs. “Plates?”

He gets the cutlery too, of course, puts them all on the island. She splits the eggs and tries hard not to roll her eyes when he pulls out the sriracha sauce. He brings over the pepper too so she keeps her comments to herself. They eat in silence, but it’s not a tense one. It’s just a natural quiet, more her thing than his but she knows he’s feeling it too.

He slides her dish out from between her elbows when she plucks the last melon from her plate, carries them to the sink before coming back for the cutlery, her empty glass. She pushes herself up with the intention of helping, but he flaps his hands to shoo her away. 

“Go,” he says. “Shower. I left some sweats on the counter for you.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, padding into the bathroom and sighing as she turns on the shower, making sure the temperature is close to scalding. She strips down and leaves her clothes in a pile, climbs in and reaches immediately for her shampoo, tucked beside his in the shower caddy. Her body wash is there too, and the purple loofa that he always buys just for her. It mirrors her own shower caddy, where his shower stuff is mixed in with hers. 

She hums to herself as she lets the water flow over her, as she tries to let all of the tension and disappointment run down the drain with the suds. It’s not the best therapy, but it’ll do for now. The rest will come later, with the little routine they’ve developed between the two of them over the years.

PK has a television in his living room, but it’s for show and for parties. He prefers curling up on his bed when it’s just the two of them and even Carey feels better when they do. There’s something locked away about the closed bedroom door, not an intimacy per se, but a way to narrow down the world and let the stress of hockey and everything that goes with it, to bleed out of her pores.

She towels off and tosses on the clothes he’s left her. He’s already sprawled on his bed when she steps in, the afghan pulled over his lap from the bottom of the bed. He lifts an edge. “Action or sappy?” 

“Sappy,” she says immediately, and bless Hallmark for always coming through for her, because there’s another cheesy movie on. She curls up beside him, half on him, easy as you please. He wraps the blankets around her with one awkward hand while the other fiddles with the volume before settling the remote on his bedside table and tucking her in closer, better. 

She gets through half the movie before she says, “It was my fault.”

“Pricey, Carey, no. It’s…”

She wedges her arms tighter around his waist. She sighs and buries her face in his chest. He always feels good like this, warm and solid the few times she feels like she’s going to fall apart. He squeezes her tight, like he could single handedly keep her in one piece with the power of his hugs. Sometimes, Carey wonders if he actually can. 

“ _ We _ could have been better. We fell apart.”

“I let in the goal.”

“Carey.”

She wants to laugh because he sounds a bit like her mother when Carey would take the team on her shoulders back in BC. But they don’t credit wins or losses to defensemen, to forwards; they credit losses to goalies. She lost the game. The stats even say so.

“We couldn’t score you one either,” he says into her hair. “This isn’t on you. You...you shouldn’t have to carry us. We have a responsibility to you, too.”

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs. “It’s really not your fault.”

“Exactly.” He kisses her head. “It’s not  _ your _ fault.”

Her sigh literally shudders out of her, her whole body trembling but with it goes some of the blame, some of the disappointment. Not all of it, not nearly enough of it, but some. She buries her nose in his t-shirt. “We’re out of the playoffs.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then, after a beat, “But look on the bright side: now you can go ride more horses.”

It startles a laugh out of her and she smacks him. “Ass.”

But it’s made her smile, just as he probably intended.

 

_ September 2014 _

_ Can I come by? _

Carey snorts and rolls her eyes.  _ Dumb question.  _

He can always come by. She’s not even sure she remembers the last time he actually asked. They have each other’s keys, ostensibly for emergencies, but that can mean anything from boredom, new movies to share, or the latest suit design PK can’t wait to show her. Not that PK’s generally good with boundaries. Not that she has many when it comes to him. 

PK is insane. It’s the only word she can use to describe him that really encapsulates everything. He’s ridiculous and charming; a clown and a pain in the ass. He is giving and he is sneaky and he’s the one person in the world that Carey feels like she knows best. She never feels like she has to be anyone but Carey around him, weird idiosyncrasies and all. He knows her. 

The best part of that though is that she doesn’t have to untangle herself from her naptime blanket fort. She hears PK come in, hears the dogs go crazy, and a few minutes later, he’s crawling in beside her, flopping down on his stomach, a mirror of her own position.

“I can’t sleep.”

Carey is most of the way there, but she hums, let’s the note rise at the end. He wiggles closer so she can feel the heat of him even through her nest of blankets. 

“I tried everything.”

PK is not generally one for insomnia. Pre-game naps are a staple, part of the routine of professional hockey life. She pries an eye open. “Worried?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he says and she watches his eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t look like he can’t sleep. She sighs and lets her eyes fall closed, cuddling closer to her pillow. 

“If you’re using me for post-nap snacks, I’m going to make you clean my bathroom.”

His mouth cracks open on an honest-to-god yawn and it makes her more than a little suspicious. She kicks out at him, catches his shin. He whines. 

“S’not deliberate,” he tells her. She hears the sheets shift and a moment later his heat is closer. She would roll her eyes if she weren’t halfway to sleep, but lets him wrap an arm over her back, tugging her into the curve of his body. “I couldn’t sleep twenty minutes ago.”

“You’ve been here five,” she retorts. “You calling me boring, Subban?”

His laugh rumbles through them both. “You? Never. Carey Price is never boring.”

She almost chokes on a laugh, finds that so very hard to believe but relaxes into the absent brush of his fingers over her lower back. She’s going to be out soon. “Well, I’m not entertaining you anyway. It’s naptime.”

“So sleep.” The brush of his lips on her forehead is familiar, easy. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“M’kay.”

* * *

 

_ February 2012 _

The first time PK ever sees Carey explode, no one sees it coming. She doesn’t have a short fuse. In fact, she’s usually pretty unflappable. But Boston will not get the fuck out of her crease and she’s been all but grinding her teeth. She knows it’s strategy, but Carey knows shoving someone like Chara is really not in her best interest. 

She doesn’t hear the crowd as she steps off the ice and she only makes it to the locker room by sheer force of will and a little bit of muscle memory. Her vision has tunneled,  _ just get to the locker room _ , on constant repeat in her mind. Every step is measured, every breath counted. 

The team is angry, frustrated as they tend to be when it’s Boston, but it’s a low buzz in the room. So the moment Carey rips her mask off her head and pitches it with all her strength into her stall, everyone hears it. Her glove is next and she barely registers the way it bounces off onto the floor. Then her blocker. It’s not enough. It’s nowhere close to enough, and with a noise that sounds a little bit more hysterical than she normally likes, she reaches for anything and everything in arm’s length and tosses it behind her. 

She hasn’t even realized the room has gone quiet. Even the training staff is utterly still when she turns, breathing heavily. The whole team is staring at her, eyes wide. Hers are blurred with frustrated, angry tears. 

“Carey?” 

She chokes out a noise as PK steps in front of her. She’s going to break. She can feel it. She’s just so… angry. He’s blocking out the room but she can’t help the embarrassment that twists in her gut. This team, her team, has always praised her for being calm, settled, a rock. Ice in her veins. She takes pride in that. 

“Hey.”

The look on his face is a mess when she finally forces herself to raise her chin. It wobbles, she can feel it, but she can do this. She can find her calm. 

“They won’t stay the fuck out of my crease,” she finally says. Because when it comes down to it, yeah, she has ice in her veins, but ice isn’t going to stop her from going back into that net, isn’t going to save her from an awkward twist, a hard tumble, and that net is not big enough for her and another player. It wouldn’t be the first time a goalie had been injured from that shit and she does not want to be a part of that statistic. It’s the whole reason why she gets so angry when players make themselves so comfortable in the crease. That’s  _ her _ space.

“Okay,” PK’s saying quietly, and he’s so, so close now. She has to look up at him, tall on his skates. Their hands are sweaty when he links their fingers. “We can solve that.” 

She doesn’t think about it much, just ducks her head and yeah, okay, maybe wallows a little, but when they go back out for the third period, Carey discovers what PK means when he says ‘solve’. She’s never seen her guys quite this rough, quite this aggressive. So aggressive that they also take a few too many penalties to her liking. When she mentions it to PK after the game, he shoots her a look like she’s stupid. 

“You didn’t want them in your crease.” 

She blinks, says mildly, “I’m not sure this is quite what I meant.” 

PK gives her more of a baring of teeth than a smile. “It’s hockey, baby.” 

It makes her laugh, loud and bright because yeah, it’s hockey, and hockey is rough and hard and amazing. “It is,” she agrees. 

PK nods, once. “And next time, maybe they won’t set foot in your fucking crease. I think you terrified les Gallys.” 

Carey blushes. “Yeah, sorry about that. I uh…don’t lose my temper that often.” 

“Yeah,” he says on a laugh. “I can see why.” His voice pitches low. “We got your back, Pricey, you know that, right?”

“Of course I do.” She’s never doubted that for a moment.

 

_ All Star Game 2014 _

She just barely remembers she’s mic’d up before she curses Tazer out. It’s his damn third goal of the game and honestly. She’s been in this league playing against him long enough that she should know exactly how to stop his shots. Hell, half of what she does is muscle memory. The puck comes off a stick and she knows exactly where it’s going to end up. 

Sometimes, she just has to hope it doesn’t end up in the back of the net. When it comes to this All Star Game, she thinks her default is ‘please don’t let it come off of Tazer’s stick’.

Still, it’s kind of fun and a new kind of challenge, trying to see just how much she can multitask when she’s trying to tend goal. Granted, she would never, ever want to try this during a real game but during the All Star Game? It’s almost like having them strap a Go-Pro to her head or something, a way to show people the way she’s thinking when she’s facing down a wave of action.

That, and Carey’s never turned down a challenge in her life, nor is she more proud of her ice veins reputation. Let them know she doesn’t think about pucks coming at her. Let them know that ninety percent of her game is muscle memory. She’s smart enough to know that it’s the kind of thing that makes her all the more dangerous in real games. 

She gets off the ice at the end of the game, takes a shower and puts her suit back on, only to find her phone has all but exploded. There are plenty of Habs who weren’t voted in this year and she’s absolutely touched by the support. She’s got something from just about everyone, but admittedly, it’s PK’s texts that make her laugh. He must have been watching at home. 

She shakes her head as she hits dial, shoves the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she packs up her gear.

“I’m telling 24CH you’re doing commentary from the crease now, Cash Money.”

She laughs, just… giddy. It’s the All Star Game, nothing matters, and they managed to break the most ridiculous record ever created. Twenty-nine goals from the NHL’s fan-voted cream of the crop. It’s pretty insane, even for a game where no one’s really trying (though Kopitar’s absolute  _ determination  _ to score a goal had been pretty hilarious).

“Pretty sure Coach would kill them if they tried.”

“Are you kidding?” PK exclaims, so happy, excited for her. “That was amazing! You were stone cold and amazing, Pricey.”

Pride sends a thrill down her spine. She’s not going to say it means more coming from PK but well. It maybe does.

 

_ January 2013 _

The lockout’s messed everything up. The season feels weird with half the games and twice the pressure. But for Carey, well, it’s just another thirty plus games between the pipes and she intends on making the most of it. There are still games to win, still playoffs to play, and dammit, she’s going to drag the damn Habs there kicking and screaming. 

Or she will, if they’d stop taking stupid fucking penalties. 

Honestly, she can’t make any sense of it. Prusty, okay, dude’s running the highest penalty minutes on the team, she kind of takes it as read that he’ll end up in the box every couple of games or so and by now she’s used to PK getting the odd penalty here or there. But then Gorges starts tussling in ways that scream he’s just asking for a timeout and Chucky slams Turris into the boards with more force than is strictly necessary and she starts getting a little, well, concerned. 

She tugs at Gio on their way into the dressing room between the second and third periods. “Hey. Penalty minutes are up.” 

He shoots her this look. “Of course they are.”

She blinks at him because he is not supposed to be okay with that. “Unprovoked.”

“Unpro-what are you talking about?”

Carey takes a natural step back. This is, after all, her captain. “Turris didn’t take a swing at Chucky. And I get that Prusty’s not really an angel but taking Karlsson to the boards like that? Come on, Gio. Guy didn’t even swing at him.”

“Not at him,” Gio says with a huff. “At  _ you _ .” 

Now Carey’s really confused. “He didn’t touch me.”

“Are you serious? Prusty said the guy got pretty mouthy.”

“Oh,” she says. “He might have said something?” She casts back, tries to remember. Honestly, she gets that kind of shit all the time. The game is most certainly not devoid of shit talking and, especially with the women, it can get downright nasty. For Carey, it’s never so much as raised her heartrate. 

“Sounds like he got more than mouthy, Pricey.” 

Carey shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“It’s  _ not _ .”

She grips his elbow, holds him there instead of letting him stride ahead of her to the locker room. “It’s  _ fine _ ,” she says again. “It’s not worth the penalty minutes.”

_ “Carey _ .”

“It’s not,” she repeats. “I couldn’t even tell you what Turris said, if he said anything at all. I honestly couldn’t. Right now, I’m just keeping pucks out of the net and… there’s nothing else on the ice, okay? Nothing. A bunch of assholes trying to put vulcanized rubber by me  _ and they’re not _ . That’s what matters.”

He looks at her, searches really, and not in the romantic way she sees in her sappy Hallmark films, thank God. “Serious?”

“Deadly.”

He considers her another moment. “You want me-”

Yes, yes she does. She wants him to tell the team to get the hell over themselves and play fucking hockey, but she’s not dumb enough to think it will be less effective coming from her. “Just… get me the room?”

Once Therrien’s ripped them a new one for shitty play and borderline penalties they’re  _ lucky _ didn’t get called, and stormed out Gio does exactly as Carey’d asked and gives her the room. She looks around, makes specific note to catch Prusty’s eyes, Chucky’s, everyone who’s been rougher than usual, letting Ottawa get to them because of a few words that mean absolutely nothing to her. 

She’s not even sure where to start, not really. Still, she opens her mouth. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words, they cannot hurt me.” 

Pleky snorts. “The fuck, Pricey? We’re on a hockey rink, not the playground.”

“Could have fooled me,” she replies, stone-faced, calm, but her heart’s pounding and she knows it’s only a matter of time before that drive shows itself. She knows exactly what they can do about this. “Since when did we start hitting back because of a few derogatory names tossed at a teammate?” 

Chucky sits up a bit straighter. “Aw, come on. We do it for Gally all the time.”

“Do not,” Brenda retorts, all but lounging in her stall. It’s not like she isn’t aware of the shit that gets tossed around on the ice. “You let  _ me _ hit them.” 

“Exactly,” Chucky nods, like it’s the answer to everything. “You can’t. So we do.”

“No.” 

The pin-drop silence falls again. Carey shuffles on her skates, tries to find her centre. She is better than this. She’s always been better than this. 

“Do not get angry,” she says finally, glancing around. “Do not fight them. Put that fucking puck in the back of that fucking net and beat them. That is how you help me.  _ You. Fucking. Beat. Them. _ ”

Gio steps up next to her then. “You heard her,” he says and Carey doesn’t need support, not really, not in this, but she can’t say she isn’t damn glad to have it anyway. 

And she is right there with them when they go out and do as they’re goddamn told. 

She gets asked about it in the post-game scrum though, an offhand comment from maybe Gio because his defense of her has always been so much quieter than the rest of the team. 

“Of course it happens,” she says. “Name calling is part of the game. That’s why I never listen. I know who I am, and I know what I’m here to do. Beyond that, nothing else matters.”

And the suddenly it’s  _ everywhere  _ and all the women are getting asked the same question, as though this is something new. Carey is absolutely mortified and apologizes for it in the group chat, only to be rebuffed.

_ It’s about time we’re having this conversation,  _ Danielle writes.  _ Rather than everyone turning a blind eye. _

_ It’s just dumb that they think they have the story of the decade,  _ Marcia adds.

And then someone asks Sid.

“It’s been happening for years. But I think if that’s what you’re resorting to because you can’t get a puck past Carey... it’s more reflective on their game than anything. Calling her names, telling any of us we don’t deserve to be here because we’re women…” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s not us that’s the problem.”

Carey’s mouth hangs open as she watches the video clip. Sid never strays from the party line and Sid never, ever says something even remotely controversial or incendiary. This, for Sid, is a goddamn bonfire.

_ YEAHHHHHH SID! FUCKING RIGHT!  _ Segs puts in the group chat, alongside about a thousand firework emojis.

_ It needed to be said. Will it change anything? Probably not. But it needed to be said,  _ is all Sid has to say in response and well, what can anyone say to that?

 

_ April 2015 _

PK’s mouthy, PK gets into fights sometimes, Carey knows this. It’s not perfect and sometimes even he takes it too far. There are times when she wonders if he realizes exactly who he’s picking on, but sometimes he’s just fucking dumb. 

It’s the damn Senators again and look, she doesn’t want to lose to Ottawa any more than he does. She really doesn’t. They’re probably close to the last team she wants eliminating them from the playoffs besides maybe Boston. But even she can see the slash on Stone had been more than a little unnecessary. It had been in front of her crease for goodness sake. 

More than that, he’d been kicked out of the game and if she knows him half as well as she thinks she does, she knows he’ll be moping. Pissed and cranky and that is not the kind of PK Carey likes seeing. Well, and Patches had very specifically pulled her aside after the game and asked she check on him. 

Asked. Requested. Carey’s not going to be surprised if he gets the C next season. 

PK’s got the stupidest, most stubborn look on his face when he pulls the door open at her knock. She merely arches an eyebrow and pushes past him, heads straight to his couch. 

“Coach already yelled at me.”

“So I won’t yell,” she answers neutrally. It’s not generally her style anyway and he knows that. “I will call you an idiot.”

“It’s  _ hockey _ . It happens.” His lower lip juts out the tiniest bit and he remains standing, like towering over her is going to stop her from talking. Carey bites back a smile because it’s not funny, it really isn’t. But he looks like Epic throwing a temper tantrum.

“Like that? It was in my crease PK. You were right in front of me. Are you honestly going to try and tell me you didn’t mean to swing your stick around and catch Stone across his wrists?”

It’s not what she’s said to the media, of course. Her PR answer is a little more middle of the road, a little more supportive of PK and still sympathetic to the Senators and Stone. She will always defend PK and she knows he knows that. The team knows that. PR knows that. She’s pretty sure Stubbs has a list of press lines she uses when it comes to PK. He probably wouldn’t actually have to interview her to build an article because she’s more than a little like Sid in that way. 

But here? Well. Here is different. 

PK deflates a little bit and, admittedly, Carey takes some pride in that. If he’s not going to listen to Coach, if he’s not going to see how close he came to completely messing up their team dynamics  _ during the playoffs _ , she will not hesitate to reach into her bag of tricks to make him feel at least a little guilty about it. 

“You’re useless to me suspended,” she tells him quietly, linking her fingers together so she can rest her forearms on her thighs. “You’re useless to the team. Coach trusted you, PK. He gave you the A.  _ We _ gave you the A. What kind of leader are you in the box? What kind of leader can you be from the locker room?” 

PK finally settles on the couch beside her, a long line of heat against her thigh. His hand slips through her arms, rests over her linked fingers. He certainly looks guilty when she turns her head and there’s a part of her that feels bad for it too. It was her goal, but she’s not heartless. 

“I’m sorry.”

Carey presses her forehead to the top of his head when he leans into her shoulder, lets herself press her mouth there softly, briefly. “I know,” she answers. “But don’t leave me alone out there, okay? Promise me.” The thought of being out there on the ice without him is so wrong. Injuries are inevitable but this? This is something she can prevent, even if it means having to pound it through his thick skull.

His smile is there now, twitching just as the edges of the mess that is his face. “I promise, Pricey. I’ll never leave you alone.” 

“Good.” She gets up now, tugging him towards the bed. “Now, come on, we’ll watch something with a lot of explosions, just to make you feel better.”

* * *

 

_ Summer 2013 _

_ Come visit me. _

Carey rolls her eyes and slides another tray across to the tiny face, just barely tall enough to see over the counter. She’s received a variation on that message for the last week, determined that as much as PK adores being home with his family, the man is beyond bored. 

Carey is not. She’s actually busy. Between training and the crazy amounts of volunteering she does at Anahim Lake, with the Breakfast Club of Canada, ‘free time’ is not something she has much of. She’s certainly not complaining about it. She loves the volunteering. It’s important to her. Way more important that PK’s fits of boredom, no matter how much she loves him. 

_ Priceyyyy _

God, he’s obnoxious. But her mouth quirks up at the corner anyway.  _ Busy, _ she types back, only partially because she knows it’ll get a rise out of him. 

_ What’s more important than entertaining me? _

_ Pricey.  _

_ Priceyyyy _

_ No, seriously, what’s more important? _

Carey laughs and glances at one of the other volunteers. She gets a questioning raised eyebrow in return. “Think the parents will mind if I send a picture to Subban?”

“For PK Subban?” the man laughs. “You could probably get them all into a group picture, no problem.”

It figures that even all the way out here, there are people who love PK. After breakfast she gets her picture, right smack dab in the middle of all the kids. “Say hi to PK, everyone!” Kayla calls.

“Hi PK!!!”

_ Maybe you should just come here instead,  _ she sends alongside the photo.  _ Looks like you have a lot of fans here. _

He responds instantly, with an almost stupid amount of heart-eye emojis.  _ You better have space for me over there. _

Two days later, she’s picking him up from the tiny, tiny airport at Anahim Lake. “Enjoy the flight?” she teases as he disembarks, looking slightly green.

“I don’t know how you managed to make those flights to and from practice,” he mutters, taking in deep lungfuls of fresh air.

“Anything for hockey, right?” she quips.

For the first time, that signature sunshine grin sweeps across his face and suddenly Carey’s swept up in his arms. “Missed you, Pricey,” he mumbles into her hair.

The chirp about it not being that long is on the tip of her tongue, but then she gets a whiff of his cologne, rich and spicy and all PK and hell, she’s missed him too. Why deny it? “I’m glad you’re here.”

“But now that he is here, we’re putting him to work, right?” Kayla calls from the truck. She’s smirking, which in Carey’s experience is never a good thing. The smirk is rapidly replaced by a squeal when PK bounds over to swing  _ her  _ up into a hug.

“Yeah, let’s put me to work! What do you need? I can cook, I can serve, I can clean, I can do it all!” He sets Kayla down and bounces on his heels. “But you gotta promise me one thing.”

The two sisters exchange glances. “Oh? What’s that?” Kayla asks.

“You’ve  _ got _ to teach me how to ride a horse.”

Oh god. PK is  _ such _ a city boy. Carey grins, thinking of all the blackmail possibilities. “I think we can arrange that.”

 

_ June 2015 _

They’ve pretty much taken over the entire salon. Maria and her mother are under the hair dryers, Kayla and Mallory are giggling over at the manicure station, while she’s parked with the stylists alongside Natassia and Natasha. “You’re going to look so beautiful, Carey,” Natasha gushes as the stylist puts the finishing touches on her updo. “It’s going to be a good look with all four of your awards.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Natassia protests over Carey’s embarrassed laugh. “Where did you get your dress?”

“Somewhere in Montreal,” she replies. “PK dragged me out after playoffs. Retail therapy, he said.” She smiles, remembering how even she’d lost patience after a while, and threatened to throw her purse at his head if he forced her into one more dress. “He went speechless, so I figured it was a good dress.”

Natassia and Natasha exchange significant glances, but Carey is too busy trying to puzzle out how the stylist is managing to pin all her hair up - and she has a  _ lot _ of hair. Somehow, Kayla ended up with all the pretty, manageable hair.

From there it’s just easy for everyone to meet up for dinner. PK’s jaw drops a little bit when he sees her, going quiet just like he had when she stepped out of the dressing room. He holds out his hands and she automatically puts hers in them, allowing him to twirl her around. “I take it this meets with your approval then?” she teases.

PK just shakes his head, his eyes intent on her. “You’re so beautiful, Carey.”

Okay, she blushes but that means a lot, coming from him. PK is wearing a truly spectacular red velvet suit jacket and she honestly has no idea how he manages to pull these things off. It’s just one of those things that is simply PK. “Thanks. And you…” Carey laughs and shakes her head. “Only you, PK.”

She watches from off to the side on the red carpet as PK lines his entire family up for a photo - hers has already gone inside because they’ve never been too comfortable in front of the bright lights and cameras. The Subbans, though - they’re all beaming.

“Pricey, Pricey come here! Get in the picture!” PK is beckoning her over, and Big Karl is already moving over to make room for her between them.

She shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t, it-”

“Carey,” Big Karl laughs. “You are already part of this family, get over here.”

Everything in her goes warm and liquid, brilliant and bright. Her family is great, her family is amazing, but so is PK’s and she’s not quite sure how to describe the feeling in her chest as PK tucks her solidly under his arm and the flashes go crazy. 

The Subbans are seated right in front of her family for the awards ceremony, and they explode each and every time her name is called, leaping to their feet and clapping madly. PK is always first, of course, and darts around to hug her. By the fourth time she really just wants to drag him onstage with her because she’s running out of things to say.

She admits that, grinning sheepishly while the audience laughs with her.

“Carey!” Mallory crows, crowding up against her in excitement once the ceremony is over. “We are going  _ out  _ tonight!”

Carey’s first instinct is to say no, but she can see both Kayla and PK giving her big puppy dog eyes, and everyone else is so excited that she can’t bear to disappoint them. Besides, she reasons, how often does someone win four NHL awards in one night? “Let’s do it,” she decides, laughing when PK actually lifts her off her feet.

She wakes up in the morning, sandwiched between Mallory and PK with Kayla sprawled across her feet. From the sound of it, Jordan’s also snoring in the next bed. PK’s arms hold her close, one curving over her back, the other warm and solid over her hip. She wants to laugh, this loud giddy thing despite the headache throbbing in her temples. Instead, she buries her face in PK’s shoulder and smiles a little wider when he tucks her closer. 

All in all, things are pretty damn perfect and she wouldn’t change a thing.

 

_ Winter 2015 _

Carey knows the minute she scrambles across her crease to make the save that she’s done. Her leg bends and her muscles scream and she grits her teeth as she rights herself. She toughs it out through the period because she is  _ fine _ . She’s good enough to do that. 

But when they get to the dressing room in between, she glances over to Mike, whose face is grim. He knows. 

She sighs, and calls Rynbend and Lacroix over. “It’s not good,” she says, trying to stretch it out and feeling the telltale twinge that means she is not going back on the ice. “It’s not bad, but it’s not good.”

She watches the third period from the locker room and it sucks. It sucks even more when the trainers and doctors tell her that ‘lower body injury’ means missing at least six weeks this time around. 

It’s the day she passes Brenda in the Bell Centre, having just finished her own appointment with Claude that the idea blossoms in the back of her mind. She calls Brenda on the way to her car. 

“Pricey. Thank fuck,” Brenda says fervently when she picks up. “Not that I’m happy you’re injured, really I’m not, you’re kind of our best player and everything but I am so fucking bored.”

The team’s away and neither of them really have people in the city that will get it, and from the underlayer of Brenda’s voice, she’s riding the hockey deprivation edge. Carey definitely gets it. The team’s away and Carey had, if she’s honest, been dreading spending the night moping alone, even with Motty and Duke for company. 

“Yeah, about that,” Carey says, slipping into the driver’s seat. “We should have a girls’ night.”

“Yes, please. Fuck.”

“And I’ll cook.” 

Brenda actually whines and Carey grins, already feeling better. “Yeah. We’ll mope together.”

They do, with some food that is on their nutrition plan and some that isn’t. Brenda’s a sucker for the romcoms, so Carey sits through  _ Sydney White and the Seven Dorks _ and  _ Letters to Juliet  _ with a minimum of fuss.

She passes out somewhere in the middle of  _ Legally Blonde _ , she thinks. It doesn’t matter when an insistent buzzing not far from her ear jolts her out of her nap. Brenda’s dead to the world against the other arm of the couch so Carey reaches for her offending phone. 

“‘Lo?” 

“Hey.” PK. Her eyes flutter and she has to bite back on a happy little sigh. “Did I wake you?”

Carey stretches, winces when she yanks the leg that’s giving her trouble. “Not really,” she reassures him. She keeps her voice low, eyes flicking to Brenda. She doesn’t really want to move if she doesn’t have to. “Good game?”

He huffs. “No.”

Carey doesn’t know what to say to that. It hasn’t been good, not with her out and not with Brenda out and she knows the team’s losing morale fast. Nothing’s going right, no matter how hard they play, and it’s hard to watch. It’s hard to listen to, too. 

“PK…”

But he’s clearing his throat. “I have about fifteen Snapchats from Gally filled with food and I know she can’t cook.”

Carey laughs softly. “We’re having a sleepover,” she says, a fond smile on her face. “Keeping each other company. I didn’t want takeout and you know I won’t let her touch my cookware.” They’re both quiet in memory of Gorges’ nice set of cooking pans. Those things were never the same after her attempt to cook team dinner with Chucky.

He makes a wounded noise and Carey’s heart thumps once, hard. He sounds like he wants to be there, sounds so lonely himself and everything hurts. “You promised you wouldn’t cook for anyone else.” 

“I did no such thing,” she argues, an old and tired back and forth. But Carey likes it, she always has, the way he’s so damn proprietary of their relationship, the way it works, the things they do together that they don’t do with anyone else. “If you get hockey, we get food.”

“That’s not a fair trade.”

“No,” Carey says, sniffing a little pretentiously. “You get  _ hockey _ .”

It’s enough to make him laugh, even if it’s strained and not quite right. She hears him sigh a beat later, just as his laughter is dying away. “I miss you, you know.”

She can feel the air shake in her chest and tips her head back as her eyes water. “I miss you too.” She clears her throat. “And Duke and Motty miss their favorite chew toy.” The joke is weak but it does the job, forcing a chuckle down the other side of the line.

“Well, I can’t deprive them of  _ that _ .”

It still doesn’t feel right though, doesn’t feel like she’s said what she wants to, hasn’t done enough to lift some of the pressure and negative energy. “Hey,” she says so, so soft. “You’ll be home soon.”

He hums, but it’s noncommittal and not better. Carey can’t do this as well as he can, lift everyone’s spirits, but this isn’t everyone. It’s PK, and she can’t-she can’t just leave him away from home and not happy. “I’ll make your mom’s beef stew and those patties,” she says, because desperate times obviously call for desperate measures.

This time, he sounds considerably brighter. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll even make the patties as spicy as she does,” she promises, even though she’s a wimp when it comes to spicy things and usually ends up drinking half a gallon of milk to put out the fire. Usually while PK laughs himself sick beside her.

“Deal. Enjoy your pillow fights,” he says with a laugh.

She rolls her eyes. “You know girls don’t really do that, right?”

“Hush Pricey, leave a man to his fantasies, will you?” But he sounds like he’s smiling so she does too and the ache in her chest that he can’t be here with her right now fades a little more.

* * *

 

_ December 2015 _

He gets back late, or early, whatever. Either way, she hears him come in, runs a hand through her hair as she sits up in bed and turns on the lamp. He looks so tired, but he smiles at her and drops his bags by the door, all but bounds onto the bed to tackle her back to the mattress. 

“Hi,” he says. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She snorts on a laugh, but can’t deny that it’s good to see him too. So good. She’s  _ missed _ him. She’s always loved being with him, and now she’s come to realize that there’s no one else she  _ wants  _ to be with. He’s just so ingrained in her life that she cannot imagine it without him - and frankly, she doesn’t want to.

Carey’s willing to bet he feels the same way, too. She knows him inside and out and that sketchbook can’t lie.

His hand is warm on her face, drawing her back to the present. To him. “Hey,” PK murmurs, scanning her face curiously. “Where did you go?”

“Brenda thinks you’re in love with me.”

She gets PK’s eye-crinkling smile in response. “Oh, Carey. Of course I am.” 

She chews her lip for a moment until he presses his thumb against the skin to pop it free. “For a while?” She knows the answer.

“Yes.”

Her eyes flutter shut and she tilts her head like it’s the easiest thing in the world, to line them up just right. It’s all worth it when he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat, brushes his lips over hers. 

“Carey,” he whispers. 

She doesn’t have to swallow or steel herself against what comes next, doesn’t even have to work hard to say to him, “I’m in love with you, too.”

“I never doubted it,” he declares, kissing her again, and again, and again…

Later, much later, she presses her lips against his shoulder. “Really? You never doubted it?”

“How could it be anything else?” he reasons. “But okay, maybe I didn’t really notice until JT told me he’d better be my best man or else.”

Carey can’t help it. She bursts out laughing, and he joins in.

PK’s right. What they have is love, and it cannot be anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Carey was very vocal about having the next story. We also forgot to mention that BGally is also a girl in this 'verse, and Stromer will be retconned as a girl as well.
> 
> For more Girl Brigade, come to tumblr and chat!: [wonthetrade](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com).
> 
> You can find Carey and her baby goalies [here](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com/post/139194900985/girl-brigade-baby-goalies)


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